Middle-Aged Spread

I have decided that I have reached an age where all the clichés heard as a youngster are starting to come true. The phrases that we have all heard but dismiss as meaningless, actually start to matter when they are applied to you directly. The ones about contentment levelled at people as an obvious spare tyre appears around their middle, for example. I don’t know whether a bulging midlife tummy is more acceptable for a man than a woman, more likely to receive a smile and a knowing nod of “oh he likes his food” almost as a badge of middle-aged honour. For my part, a similar middle-aged spread signals a heap of negatives.

Outfits that I was feeling good about wearing now begin to feel ‘a bit snug’ in places so I find myself moving them along the rail in my wardrobe and reaching for more comfortable and less conspicuous choices. That wish to fade into the background starting to creep in again, the one that I had pushed away with my red shoes and splashes of colour and the mantra of being fabulous at fifty, showing my true colours in my ‘Autumn years,’ all of that swept aside along with the offending outfit. Weight gain is often linked to negative mood, it seems that way for me anyway. It is so easy to slide down that spiralling helter-skelter of grabbing comfort food at a low moment and then feeling low because you have had that ‘naughty treat’ and then feeling the need to grab another, and on and on until somehow you can jump off that ride.

Lately, the phrase ‘you can’t have your cake and eat it’ feels ironic. It seems that I only have to glance sideways at a Victoria sponge and the calories are being absorbed by osmosis and joining hands to dance around my middle whilst sticking out their tongues in a joint act of defiance to say we’re not going anywhere. Motivational messages might extoll the virtues of feeling positive and guilt-free about having that slice of cake but then scales don’t exactly play a fanfare when I step on them in the morning and watch the numbers steadily rise. I may be giving the impression that I am addicted to cake but it serves as a mere example to the many items that I should eat less of.

Recently I have tried to do just that and to up the exercise, all the measures recommended by all the experts. I do seem stuck right now though and that is when the motivation factor is crucial. Some days I feel that I have two doors that I can choose to go through. One door allows me to continue on a path of willpower, with fruit and vegetables scattered amongst the righteous flowers on either side. The pathway is strewn with options of low fat, low sugar - dare I say low interest! The other door looks more attractive from the outside, with a sparkly sign on it saying temptation. Behind that door I can imagine a feast laid out like a banquet, cake stands piled high, chocolate fountains, warming pastry goods, roast potatoes, breads and cheeses. I could go on but I think you get the picture and you might be drooling like me at the thought of it all. Tempting though all that might be, as plates are cleared from this metaphorical feast, labels are revealed - guilt, self-loathing, no control, fat, worthless. That’s the trade-off I guess. The decision I have to make each day, of which door to open.

As middle age engulfs me, it has certainly felt harder to shift weight, to make an impact upon my body shape. Alongside this, emotions can often overwhelm me. So to move forward requires a two pronged attack. I need to deal with both the physical and mental well-being. Sometimes that needs support. The mere act of writing this feels a little like waving a white flag to ask for that support. I have a goal to achieve within the next four weeks. I have a costume waiting to be worn, my evil fairy outfit for my part in a local drama group’s production of Sleeping Beauty. I have to keep visualising that as I stand each day before those doors. I would love to look good in that costume. I would love to own the stage in it, full of sass, not cake. Maybe I should print off a picture of an evil fairy and stick it to my fridge. I will have to give it a good go anyway.

So I am trying to make an impact within those next four weeks. I am trying to keep motivated and not give in to the temptations presented at family birthdays, coffee stops with friends, convenience when rushing to be somewhere. There’s one more cliché coming into focus here: ‘mind over matter.’ I have to work hard on that and also on telling myself not to mind when comments may be made by those who shouldn’t matter to me. I’m working hard to ditch the comfort food and take comfort from the results that I hope come from that effort. I’ll just have to keep you posted on that one.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Thoughts of ghouls and ghosts and all things nasty come to mind as we head through the month of October and Halloween approaches. Opinions on this phenomenon are divided and although I celebrated the occasion as a child, with simple apple bobbing, buns on strings and the odd Meg and Mog story, today’s marking of the 31st of this month seems to have far more of the macabre and overtly horrific about it. Consequently as a parent, I didn’t let my children take part in the practice of Trick or Treat - something that they didn’t thank me for.

I didn’t feel comfortable about the process, how it goes against the message we instil of not talking to strangers and instead, because it’s Halloween and they are dressed in a scary mask they can knock on anyone’s door to demand a sugar fix. Aside from the stranger danger and how intimidated the random resident might feel on their doorstep, no one needs an entire bucket full of sweets to devour. I also question the proliferation of frankly disturbing masks, costumes and props that find their way into high street stores in the lead up to Halloween and wonder what young children make of such images around them. It certainly can’t help their bedtime routine.

In case you are reading this thinking I am just a party pooper, my children didn’t miss out entirely and I recall a few Halloween parties attended with friends or family. An image of my daughter in a witch’s hat and purple tutu skirt whilst my son wore a Dracula cape comes to mind and of course, casting spells in the style of Harry Potter was always a popular past time. Such days are a distant memory now and my children may be found at a Halloween gig at a pub or watching a scary movie screening whilst I am at home, cradling a mug of hot chocolate.

My wickedness is currently confined to playing the role of the evil fairy in my drama group’s annual pantomime. Within that I find that I am being thwarted by a subtle serpent. The symptoms of ageing, the menopausal Medusa, slithering in to sabotage my performance. Each week I find myself battling with confidence issues, memory loss and an ongoing problem with my foot that causes a fair amount of pain as I try to dance. Working on my confidence to convince myself that I can actually manage the part I have been given, takes a fair amount of effort. This week I am trying to get some of the lines into my head, as the performances draw nearer, but this is no easy task when on a daily basis I can walk into a room and forget why I went there and I am increasingly aware that I can stop mid-sentence as my brain plays a somersaulting game, trying to find the word that I need next. Whilst this is indeed a concern, I am working on it and making adjustments to be able to succeed by starting the whole memorising task earlier than I usually do and keeping my fingers crossed for that strategy to work.

The thing that I am finding most difficult is the pain and discomfort with my foot and it saddens me, after dancing in some shape or form since the age of three, that dance is proving problematic. Ironically the issues are typical for a dancer so it is even more poignant that I feel my dancing shoes may soon have to be hung up. Throughout my life, whatever size or shape I became at different points, dancing has been my release. A way to forget about everything else for a while and to let my mind focus upon the movement, the joy of the expression and the fun of being part of a performance- whether alone or in a group.

Dance has always come naturally to me, to move in time with the beat, to flow from one part of a routine to the next, to extend an arm line with poise and a smile, were all aspects I learnt early on and are now just second nature. My mind is still willing and imagines me succeeding in the spotlight but the body is finding it hard to deliver the goods these days. Then, of course, that wicked snake slithers in to strike a confidence blow or a lapse in memory and that which I had always thought was a strength of mine, begins to crumble.

My pointe shoes are wrapped up in a dusty box in a corner of the attic, for pointe work is a young girl’s game and I never quite had the whole slimline package for that. But I do not want to wrap up all my dance shoes yet. I have noticed the work of this evil ageing process but I am not ready to surrender to it yet. I am determined to keep dancing, with my painkillers and massage techniques at the ready for the recovery process.

I have heard that something wicked this way comes but she’s ready to rock an evil fairy costume and to kick ass! With a high kick and a pirouette, obviously.

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Performing at the Commonwealth Institute, April 1975

In Need of an M.O.T?

At the end of a particularly blustery day, following a week of true ‘March winds’, I sit in bed listening to the rain on the rooftop and reach for my writing journal. I feel that it is time to reflect and whilst there seems so much around us these days to cast shadows and narrow our horizons, I find myself taking stock of what I have to be thankful for. The large scary stuff can overwhelm us so easily but I have found that my daily habit of writing can provide that much needed outlet of escape – akin to turning the valve on a pressure cooker to release steam.

I often don’t know what is going to emerge as my pen hits the page but by the end of the process it has usually served a purpose, calmed my spirit and allowed the swirl of thoughts to subside momentarily. There have been a lot of thoughts taking a tumble around my mind recently – much like the odd bits of debris I saw tossed about by the wind today as I tried to walk the dog. I have had a few darker days this month, where those self-doubt seedlings have tried to take hold again. They can be as persistent as the weeds and brambles that annually try to choke the flower beds in our garden, giving us a renewed ambition to sort out the space and make something of our bit of nature ready for promised warmer days.

Looking at the work still to be done in the garden today, I noticed a couple of flowers emerging from the branches of a small magnolia tree that my mum bought for me as a birthday gift last year. I have long admired such trees each spring when passing their proud displays of flowers, so to have my own in a pot on our decking is a little joy to be thankful for. Yes, it is a simple thing but sometimes that is all we need to lift our chins and turn our faces back towards the sunlight.

This month has also brought its fair share of appointments for me – the medical ones that make you notice your age again. I have had a blood test to keep a check on my anaemia, ongoing physio with exercises to try to keep on top of on a daily basis and the anxious process of a mammogram waiting for me to finish off the month. There is something quite surreal about the small talk you share with a health professional as they are squashing your wayward breasts in a device that would look at home in a torture chamber and trying to recall how long you have had a particular mole and describe the usual appearance of your nipples. Still, it’s just one of those necessary evils of womanhood and better to have a moment of discomfort and keep all in check than to be oblivious to anything sinister coming along.

The physio exercises I am doing are helping my foot – as they were designed to do – but seem to be causing some transferred pain elsewhere and so I came to bed tonight with a throbbing calf muscle which I hope eases overnight. When I hobbled up two flights of stairs to reach my bed, it was easy to think that I was falling apart and added to my thoughts of feeling my age. I certainly feel as though I am having a sort of M.O.T and wonder how nice it would be if I could trade a few parts in for an upgraded model. A lift or tuck here or there maybe? Not really my way though, I have always thought that I should just work with what I have been given – even if some days there is quite a lot of work to be done.

With an M.O.T and service comes an oil change and a check of tyre pressures. Metaphorically speaking, I feel I would benefit from the same and have been mindful of necessary diet and exercise tweaks that I should be trying to make. On the pressure side, I am now in a place where I know when and how to take effective measures most of the time but I am also aware of the need to support my husband with this. As the weight of meeting the family finances has now fallen to him and the job demands have weeks where he is left looking very tired, our planned short break away next month can’t come soon enough.

They say a change is as good as a rest but sometimes change is by its very nature anything but restful. There have been a lot of changes to our home and family dynamic recently and we are all adapting. Within the context of a few days away, just as a couple, the change of pace and scene that brings will hopefully bring with it the rewards the mind and body reaps from a rest. Our break away has been made possible by the generosity of friends who purchased hotel vouchers for us as birthday gifts last year. It is also being realised because my children have promised to be pet and house sitters and have reassured us that all will be fine and to leave them to it. Let’s hope our trust is not misplaced.

A couple of days away may not sound like much but from previous experience, it can make a world of difference. There is that saying that ‘little things mean a lot.’ Thinking of all the little things we have around us that we should be thankful for and the odd possession that we may like to treasure, it is always the friends and family that I return to, that I value most. When days are dark, or the swirl of thoughts threatens to suck me in to a spiralling state, I can rely upon them to be my recovery service and they don’t even need to bring their van.

The Rule Book

Someone asked me today whether I ever had any rules for being a Mum. It was in the context of a discussion about how the rules change as your children grow up and also how I feel myself at present - away from the confines of a regular day job - a bit like the rule book has been thrown out of the window. His question made me pause to think and I wonder what rules I did have as a Mum and what rules any of us really follow?

Thinking back the golden rule in those manic initial months - the baptism of fire into motherhood - is of course to grab any rest you can as soon as you have an opportunity to do so. That pearl of wisdom from an older, seen-it-all-before relative "When baby sleeps, you sleep." In practical terms it doesn't work out that way as I remember trying to keep on top of the rest of life when baby slept, but the theory is sound. An image of scraping together something that vaguely resembles lunch from the previous night's dinner and hastily grabbing a moment in the shower, without baby in the bathroom with you, is the sort of thing I did in a dazed stupor at baby's nap time.

I am finding it hard to remember specific rules for managing as a parent, though I guess if you were to ask my children they would probably reel off several. I think we had more of a set of expectations rather than hard and fast rules. We expected our children to listen to others and in turn, we would listen to them. My dear friend and Godmother to both of my children has noted in the past that my eldest always expected to be included in the conversation and saw no distinction between himself and the adults in the room, taking his turn to speak alongside them. My daughter then followed suit from the example set. We expected that our children would sit down for mealtime, particularly if in a public place - no crawling or running around restaurants, no 'helicopter grazing' at home, picking at bits as they fancied rather than joining a mealtime. I guess then that social etiquette was taught by that example.  As for other rules, they would have centred around personal safety and respect for each other. That umbrella covers all of the daily necessities like "Don't touch the hob, wait at the kerb, put your toys back in the box when you've finished playing with them" and a whole host of similar statements. 

What rules do you have for your children? If you're not a parent, what rules do you remember from your own childhood? I wonder if you think they were fair or if with hindsight, you would change them. Keeping up with today's fast-paced life we probably need a fast-paced rule book, one that changes and adapts as issues arise. There's a lot that we needed to think about rules for that didn't exist when we were children. Screen time, internet access, gaming restrictions are just a few that come to mind. I still feel like I am playing catch-up in these areas and actually I have now run out of scope to be setting rules, as both of my children are now adults (well - the youngest is only six months away from being so.) Four adults, one dog, two guinea-pigs and a hamster all living in one space - there may not be rules but there needs to be a respect for each other's space and wishes. It won't be of any surprise to you to learn that it doesn't always work.

Looking back, I am sure that it didn't work for a lot of the time. There are so many parenting manuals available and a plethora of programmes to watch in the style of 'Super Nanny.'  Yet it doesn't really matter how much research you do, I still think that there are no real rules and no elusive magic way to be a parent. In danger of being called a hippy perhaps, I am not advocating having no rules for I firmly believe that children need boundaries and to know what they are. However, I think we all just do the best that we can, sometimes one day at a time, but the best that we can with the skills that we have and we keep our fingers crossed that somewhere along the line, it turns out okay.

Friends and Frivolity

It is often said that friends are the family that you choose for yourself. As it is with family, friends come in all shapes and sizes and move in and out of your life, as circumstances dictate. Some friends are regular participants in your life and others may be more sporadic but true friends, the people who really matter and make a difference to you, are always ready to listen, to meet up, to be a presence when the need is there - even if you haven’t seen each other for a long time. It is a blessing to me that I have a strong group of friends that I can call upon when I need them and who, I would hope, would do the same to me as and when they needed support.

I am about to spend a weekend away with a group of friends - an eclectic bunch who have agreed to join me in a girls adventure marking my birthday. Each one of them has their own busy life and family commitments, yet they put it all on hold to indulge me in a madcap, frivolous weekend and spent a year saving up to be able to do so.

What is it that draws people together to become friends? Often a shared interest perhaps and we are all partial to a bit of drama, this is true. When in the playground, choosing friends, you pick from similar aged peers. Now there’s 20 years or more between the youngest and oldest of our group, yet it doesn’t seem to figure in the relationships. We can all laugh together and support each other, as required, without limits.

It seems like I should return to this blog, when the impending weekend is done and I no doubt will have a wealth of experiences from it on which to comment. Yet is that necessary? I’m thinking of the old adage of “you needed to be there.” Indeed, trying to relay anecdotes of something that a group found completely hilarious to a dumbfounded looking individual, after the event, is never a fully satisfactory pastime.

I know that we will laugh, drink, eat and do silly things and perhaps that’s all that needs to be said. Over a year saving, several months planning events during the weekend, copious amounts of messages back and forth fine tuning details of outfits to wear, times to meet and catch trains and one central space set up for all of us to post our photographs during the weekend - all culminates in a shared experience that, with a bit of luck, we’ll all look back on with fond memories for many years to come.

And that is surely the crux of it? Making memories with the people that matter to you, isn’t that what life needs to be about? I’m sure, when the curtains are about to fall upon your final life’s performance, it is not the items you have bought or the jobs that you completed that come into focus in your mind. Memories are etched into your mind from sharing experiences together - with friends or family, or friends who become family. It is not how long you have shared a pathway with someone that matters, it’s who you jumped in the puddles with, who climbed a tree with you, who ran giggling with you to hide behind the bushes.

So, I’m not sure that the seven of us will be doing those things this weekend but we are booked into a dance workshop, an afternoon tea, an evening of relaxing chat with a tipple or two thrown in and who knows what else may transpire? As the theme is vintage, we’re all dressing up accordingly - I did say it was a madcap adventure! Within that context, we have our feather boas ready and are so excited that it’s akin to being schoolgirls again. It’s so lovely to be giving ourselves time and space to be silly, be pampered and to make memories together. Onlookers may not ‘get it’ but we’re all up for the nonsense of it and if you can’t have a bit of nonsense from time to time, then life’s a bit dull.

Perhaps we all need to be daft from time to time and we certainly shouldn’t just keep things on a bucket list and never get round to doing them. Choose your bucket list items carefully but share the experiences with those who are significant in your life, be that friends or family. I’m off to pack now and I’ve made sure I’ve got my bucket with me!

Diva or Door Mat?

At the risk of showing my age and alienating those readers born too late to share in the cultural phenomenon of children's TV in the 70s, I'm reminded of the daily choice of which window to go through: round, arch or square? ⁽¹⁾ Choices back then were simple, like which type of penny sweet to add to your bag in the sweet shop on a Friday on the way home from school, or which outfit to put on a Sindy doll when your friend came round to play - it was always the ballerina.

Still, making simple choices as a child is good practice for the myriad of indecision coming your way as an adult. I often think of myself as standing in a changing room looking at a row of pristine white doors, each with its own neatly numbered shining plaque, considering my options before opening one of them to put on the outfit that hangs within it and pick up the baggage that accompanies it. Don't we all have different roles that we play each day? I have my wife role, kissing my husband 'Good morning' before I stumble around the bathroom trying to make myself presentable for the day ahead. I have my Mum role, which used to involve a lot of multi-tasking to enable my children to get through the pre-school checklist of breakfast, dressing in uniform, bag checking, picking up lunch boxes, reassuring that PE would be fine that day and they just needed to try their best in their spelling test. Lately, my Mum role is more likely to involve a checklist of whether breakfast is going to be eaten before a work shift or calling up the stairs to see how long it really takes to do eye make-up! As children become more independent, my Mum role is more that of a hotel receptionist checking everyone in and out and asking about their dinner reservations. I expect it's a common cry from parents of teenagers and beyond to bemoan the use of the house as a hotel with all services on tap: laundry, meals provided, room service when I've removed the pizza boxes casually thrown on the floor when they had a friend round and ordered out. If I moan too much about the lack of responsibility and demand that chores are completed, am I being a diva?  If I continue clearing up after them and doing those Mum things that were always part of my job description, does that make me a door mat?

Well, clearly the dressing room door to the Mum outfit contains a lot of baggage! What about the other roles that I habitually adopt? I don't know if anyone else has these scenarios going around their head, but my adulting life is managed by me adopting different characters within it. Don't get me wrong, I don't actually have names for each and physical costumes to wear - that would be entering some kind of multiple personality realm - but adult life is only really advanced role play isn't it? What started in the home corner or on board a pirate ship just becomes more refined and subtle as an adult.

I have my 9 to 5 soundtrack in my head as I fire up my computer to check on emails and start my working day. I have the socially adept, a smile for everyone persona when faced with a family / friends gathering. You know the ones where small talk is the order of the day and no-one really actually talks about anything significant and we go back to our lives having moved no further forward as a person. I have my daughter role where I balance being supportive and taking on a semi-parent role reversal scenario with moments of being back to being told what to do, as I was as a child, although this is now in the guise of friendly motherly advice. Then there’s the more recently developed writer’s role. In this I inhabit a somewhat romanticised world in my head where I am both the editor and writer with a deadline, snatching moments of time to write the latest piece or addition to a longer work in progress. Sat in a coffee shop or in a quiet space at home, writing for whichever current project, allows me that feeling of headspace which is fast becoming the goal to strive for within a busy working week.

Now, as I stand in the dressing room with all those doors lined up before me, I see a door that had been mostly left shut for a while. This is the door with outfits behind that allow me to be myself, a woman looking to have an evening out with friends being relaxed and doing silly things just because I can. A woman who likes to dress up in a newly purchased outfit and put on my bright lipstick and paint my nails and have a date night with my husband – whatever that might entail. A woman who doesn’t have to explain to anyone why she might have had a few too many drinks and is now singing rather too loudly on a night out. A self-assured and capable woman with diva aspirations.

The reasons this door has been neglected are complex and perhaps we all go through phases of being the last priority in a long list? In our busy lives with work demands and family commitments, especially when the children are younger and more dependent or there is a family member with health issues, it is so easy to get caught up with the automatic and mundane and find so many reasons not to put yourself first from time to time. I have recently found myself asking if this has meant that I have created an expectation that I will drop everything when asked and rush to help others – particularly where my children are concerned. I think the circumstances of the last year or so have had a cumulative effect where I lost self-confidence and sought solace in seeking out a calm ticking over life by having a default mechanism of agreeing to things, in that sort of ‘anything for a quiet life’ way.

When you’re feeling low and lacking confidence it is somewhat of a paradox that you take on more by not saying no to requests. So yes, there have been times when I’ve been thinking that rather than the sassy diva I would like to portray like a leading lady upon a stage in the spotlight, I’ve been more like the proverbial door mat – down trodden and gathering the dirt and dust from the stamping feet above. The way forward now is to pick myself up off the floor, fling open that last door and strut out with confidence – well, at least every once in a while.

⁽¹⁾             http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/classic/playschool/trivia.shtml